


Tribute to the Horde

by Gerec



Series: The Dirty Bad [4]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Anal Fingering, Aphrodisiacs, Butt Plugs, Chastity Device, Cock Rings, Double Anal Penetration, Double Penetration, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, Exhibitionism, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Forced Marriage, Gangbang, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Multi, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Oral Sex, Public Sex, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-11-27
Packaged: 2018-08-31 01:22:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8557168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gerec/pseuds/Gerec
Summary: Kurt Marko offers omega!Charles as tribute to the Genoshan Chieftain Erik Lehnsherr, to stave off the great mutant horde that has amassed outside the capital of Westchester. The Genoshans are a fierce, nomadic people with very different traditions, including a public bonding ceremony where Charles must mate not only with the Chieftain, but also with his most trusted generals...





	1. Preparations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Seek_The_Mist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seek_The_Mist/gifts), [afrocurl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afrocurl/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cain has a gift for Charles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is sort of a GoT inspired A/O verse with powers, where Kurt has usurped Charles’ rightful place on the throne of Westchester. Really just an excuse to write EXTREMELY dirtybad porn, so if that’s not your thing, please exit out right now!

“Your Highness.”

A soft voice pulls him back from his musings; one of the attendants is calling to him, expression tight and worried, signaling that they’ve finished filling the giant marble bath. He gives her what he hopes is a reassuring if not-quite smile, and tries not to think too much on the significance of the coming day.

That today is the day Charles will be ‘gifted’ to the Genoshans’ Chieftain – as mate or slave or broodmare, he doesn’t really know –

He had not been privy to any of the treaty negotiations between Kurt and the Genoshans; only aware that _he_ was being offered as the ultimate prize – along with half the treasury, and a yearly tribute – to ensure that the kingdom of Westchester did not fall to the might of the mutant horde. But for the safety of his people, and freedom from the Markos, Charles is prepared to do what he must, even if it means a life of servitude or worse, with savages who purportedly roam the land, sacking and pillaging as they go.

Charles has just slipped off his outer robe when Cain barges into his chambers unannounced, sending the attendants scurrying to the side with a menacing scowl. His presence is a breach in protocol both as a royal and as an alpha, though few in the palace have the courage or the interest to stop him.

After all, who would side with the rightful heir of Westchester, when someone else sits on the throne?

“Cain,” he says evenly, ignoring the way his stepbrother’s eyes cling to the outline of Charles’ body under his sheer tunic. “To what do I owe the displeasure of your visit?”

He stiffens when Cain steps in front of him, and clenches his fists when the man leans in, nose just shy of brushing his neck, right above his suppression collar. Every inch of him is screaming to fight, to get away from the brutish thug, to stop him as he inhales a greedy lungful of Charles’ scent with a grunt.

“Father sent me to help you get ready,” Cain answers, leering at Charles with hateful smugness. “I’ve brought you a gift.”

“I don’t want anything from you or Kurt,” he snaps, turning away, only for Cain to grab his wrist and hold him in place. “Let go of me.”

Cain growls, but allows him to pull away, watching as Charles retreats to the other side of the marble bath. Instead, he turns to the address the attendants who are staring with wide, frightened eyes, and snarls, “Well? Get on with it! He has to be delivered to those heathens by sunset.”

They scramble to obey, pouring scented oils into the steaming bath as Cain throws himself onto the sedan, setting a golden box next to him on the cushions. It’s obvious that Cain has no intention of giving Charles his much needed privacy, and so he allows the attendants to strip him of his tunic and his smalls, and does not flinch when he steps in, baring him to the scrutiny of his stepbrother’s wandering eyes.

He sinks into the water, and lets the heat and the smell of jasmine and lavender seep into his muscles. It is not the first time that Cain has spied on Charles in the bath or in various states of undress; if not for Kurt’s expressed order, Cain would surely have mated him by now, willing or no. And certainly Kurt’s directive had little to do with protecting Charles or his dignity - no, his interest lay solely in preserving his worth as an untouched omega, to be bartered and sold to the highest bidder.

The two attendants work thoroughly and efficiently, with one washing Charles’ hair as the other lathers soap onto his skin from head to toe. It would almost be relaxing, or enjoyable if not for Cain’s lustful gaze, so intent that it might as well have been _his_ hands running all over Charles’ naked body. He closes his eyes and pretends he can’t smell Cain’s arousal from clear across the room; ignores the slow shiver that runs up his spine as the aphrodisiacs they served with his last meal start to take effect.

They dry him off when he steps from the bath but do not cover him; instead, they shave what little hair Charles has on his body – his armpits, his legs, even his groin – until he is soft and smooth to the touch. The attendants then proceed to oil him from head to toe, slathering his skin with it in long, soothing strokes, until he stands glistening like a rippling pond in the sunlight.

“Leave us,” Cain demands, getting up and off the sedan, waving impatiently as the betas almost trip over themselves to get out of the room as fast as they can. Charles refuses to flinch when the door locks behind them with a click, leaving him alone and completely at Cain’s mercy.

He stands stock still as Cain circles him, taking him in, close enough that Charles can feel the alpha’s hot breath scorching his skin. It feels like an eternity of endless, exquisite torture, being exposed and devoured for Cain’s pleasure like a common prostitute.

“You are so, so lovely, Charles,” Cain whispers, so close, _too_ close, as he struggles to stay still. “But you’re not quite ready yet. Don’t worry, I’m here to help.”

“I don’t want your--” he starts, but all thoughts fly out of his head as he stares at the innocuous contents inside the box, jaw dropping open with dawning horror. “No, you can’t! I…why?”

Cain grins, pulling the slim, jeweled plug from the velvet inlay and holding it up for Charles to examine. He snarls and pushes away but Cain grabs him again, hard and unrelenting, and Charles has no choice but to stop struggling or have his wrist snapped in two.

“Do you know what I found out about the Genoshans, dear brother?” Cain taunts, rolling the plug – rounded and silver with a sapphire embedded in the end – between his thick fingers. “It seems that they have rather… _interesting_ mating rituals. You see, any time a Chieftain takes a mate, the _entire tribe_ gets involved, did you know? They have the bonding ceremony outdoors, right there on the ground like filthy animals. And everyone gets to watch while the Chieftain fucks his new omega.”

Charles swallows the bile in his throat and glares defiantly at Cain. “That’s still better than getting fucked by _you_.”

“Oh but I haven’t even told you the best part!” his stepbrother crows, and how he wishes he could take his damn collar off, so he can shatter Cain’s mind into a million pieces. “Not only do they get to watch the _Chieftain_ fuck you, they get to watch his generals fuck you too. That’s part of the ceremony, you see, something about loyalty and swearing oaths and brotherhood.”

His heart sinks at the revelation; not only will he have to submit bodily to a complete stranger, but he will have to do so with others too, and all in plain view of the people he’ll be living with for the foreseeable future. It’s enough to make him sick to his stomach, the thought of being so used and exposed…

“---why you need my help,” Cain is saying, and Charles takes a step back, eager to get away, and cover himself up. “Get on the bed.”

“What? No!”

“Do as I say, Charles,” Cain warns, as he slowly advances, herding Charles backwards towards the bed. “Unless you want me to bring some guards in here to hold you down while I prepare you. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind the show.”

He has never known Cain to issue an idle threat, and so he has no choice but to capitulate, unwilling to let his own men witness his violation. Gritting his teeth, he climbs onto the bed, and curls as far away from Cain as he possibly can.

“Stretch out. On your stomach,” Cain directs, and Charles moves albeit reluctantly, burying his face in the sheets with a strangled cry. The bed dips, and then Cain’s bulk is pinning him down onto the bed, his stepbrother straddling his legs as Charles bites back the urge to scream.

“Shh, relax,” Cain says, gently, like Charles is a spooked horse he’s trying to leash. “You’ll thank me for doing this, Charles. Who knows what those barbarians will do to you, how many times they’re going to fuck you before the night is over.”

Charles scoffs, even as he shivers from the oil Cain slowly drizzles on the small of his back and down between his buttocks. “Don’t pretend this is for me. You want to use me, debase me…at least the Genoshans are honest about what they’re doing.”

A finger, slippery with oil circles his opening, touching him, _probing_ him, teasing him with unspoken promise. It makes Charles flinch, and clench involuntarily, though that only seems to amuse Cain, who chuckles breathlessly as he slides his finger in with ease, slowly breaching him to the sound of Cain’s approving hum.

“You want honesty? I can be honest,” Cain says, as he sets a leisurely pace, working his finger in and out methodically, _stretching,_ filling him, making him ache with unwanted pleasure. “You were supposed to be _mine_ , Charles. Mine to fuck, as many times and in as many ways as I wanted. But now, thanks to these _barbarians_ and _thieves_ I have to let you go. Allow someone else to fuck you when you should rightly belong to me.”

He groans when Cain adds a second finger, the way smooth and easy now as Charles’ own slick mixes with the oil in his passage. The drugs too are doing their part to lower his defenses, fed to him earlier in preparation for his delivery to the Chieftain. It gets harder and harder to remember that he doesn’t want this; that his cock isn’t swollen and leaking because of Cain, fucking him with his fingers. That he isn’t writhing on the bed when his stepbrother slips a third finger in, arching back to take him in deeper, whimpering as he’s spread wide and stuffed full.

“They’re going to fuck you,” Cain continues, sprawling on top of Charles and pulling his erection out, rutting against him as he moans. “You’re going to take so many cocks up your ass tonight, my little omega whore. Begging for it, for someone to knot you, and make you come. But _I’ll_ be the first to take you like this, Charles. It’s my fingers inside you now, making you keen. My touch that’ll make you come first, no matter how many alphas fuck you tonight and in the months and years to come.”

“Uggghhh,” Charles groans, and Cain pushes even harder, panting against his ear as he works his fingers deep, pressing against the spot that’s sending sparks up and down Charles’ spine. He wants to say no, to deny ever being _Cain’s_ , but it’s too much, too overwhelming, and Charles can’t think, or breathe or--

“It’ll always be _me_.”

He comes with a harsh cry, pulsing all over the bed as he clenches hard around Cain’s thick, probing fingers. Cain follows him over only a few strokes later, jerking himself off, splattering his seed all over Charles’ buttocks and thighs with a loud, exuberant grunt. 

Shame follows the immediate high of release, sharp and visceral as it washes slowly over Charles, making him scrunch his eyes closed in disgust. He ignores the press of a soft kiss on the back of his head, and doesn’t move as Cain wipes him clean with the bedsheets, removing the stain of his come off of Charles’ still hot and throbbing skin. And when Cain spreads his legs wide and slips the plug inside, he barely flinches, too abashed and mortified to put up even the pretence of a struggle.

“Good,” Cain murmurs, as he climbs off the bed and tucks himself back into his pants. “I’ll send the attendants back in, to help you finish getting dressed.” 

He hums a little tune as he makes his way to the door, leaving Charles to lay in his own spend on the ruined silk sheets.

 

 


	2. The Chieftain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Charles meets the Chieftain and his War Council.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was supposed to be the porn! But then, the Muse said 'write more stuff' and so we have another 2200 words of Charles, lack of words and terrible world building. Enjoy! (Next chapter we get to the pornz, really).

In the end the attendants have to wash and re-oil him, to remove all traces of Cain’s seed from his skin.

It wouldn’t do after all, for the Genoshans to suspect duplicity from Westchester; to smell the scent of another alpha all over their supposedly virgin tribute.

They move quickly and quietly as they work, and make no mention of the jewelled plug wedged between his buttocks, for which Charles is inordinately grateful. But neither is he surprised when they present him with a garish, matching chastity belt – this time a ‘gift’ from Kurt – a monstrosity that cages him front _and_ back, denying him access to his own body while holding the plug securely in its place.

The robes they clothe him in are feather light and whisper thin, a mockery of his usual finery as a Prince of Westchester. They do nothing to preserve his modesty before the eyes of all who will see him, the outline of his chastity belt clear under the dark blue silk, threaded with silver. He is an offering, not a person, is what his outfit clearly says; no doubt a message Kurt means to convey to the Chieftain, to secure his good graces.

Nobles and servants line the corridors alike, as a procession of honor guards escort him through the castle, with the Markos leading the way. He holds his head high as he passes them all, ignoring the whispers of those who abandoned him to swear allegiance to Marko, mere months after his father’s death. Charles will wear his humiliation like so much armor, and let the lascivious stares and the mocking jests roll unheeded like water off a duck’s back.

Someday, Charles vows, he _will_ return, and exact vengeance on every single person who betrayed his family.

They send him on his way in the royal carriage, after a grand speech from Kurt about Charles’ ‘great sacrifice’ and his ‘unerring duty to the safety and wellbeing of Westchester’. The gathered crowd cheers as he climbs inside, unaware – and uncaring – of the way Cain leans close to rub against him one last time, whispering vile words of ‘encouragement’ for his soon-to-be defilement by the horde. He breathes a sigh of relief when the door finally closes and the carriage trundles down the path and out of view, taking him away from his life as a prisoner of ill circumstance, caged in luxury.

The trip out of the capital and into the Genoshan encampment takes just over an hour, enough time for the rhythmic push and pull of the plug to make his heart race, as do the herbs that make his skin feel feverish and too tight. He can scarcely stand to have even the flimsy silk he’s wearing touching his body; if not to maintain even the smallest semblance of propriety, Charles would gladly tear his robes off completely, and let the cool air soothe the simmering heat. But most of all, Charles wants his collar gone and his powers restored, so he can live his life freely and on his own terms.

He wonders if the Genoshans would ever consider granting his wish.

The carriage comes to a stop on the outskirts of the makeshift city, where hundreds of domed tents branch outwards as far as the eye can see. Charles is relieved to see no crowd of onlookers waiting to gawk at Westchester’s tribute; only three men and a woman await him at the bottom of what is clearly the Chieftain’s lodgings.

When the door opens, one of the men – the only beta in the group of alphas – steps forward and offers his hand, helping Charles from the carriage with care.

“Your Highness,” he says with great formality, and a short bow. “My name is Hank McCoy, and I welcome you to our camp. Your arrival has been greatly anticipated by our people.”

“Thank you, ah…Sir Hank, is it?”

“Just Hank, if you please, Your Highness,” he corrects, seemingly keen to answer Charles’ unspoken questions and to set him at ease. “We have no ranks here like those you have in Westchester, you see. Officially, I’m the chief healer, and sometime historian, though we don’t always—“

One of others – a surly looking man with barely concealed impatience – barks something at Hank in native Genoshan, only to be chastised in turn by the woman shooting him a disapproving glare. The remaining alpha – the only one visibly different with his red skin and long, slim tail – seems content to just stare curiously at Charles without comment, clearly unaffected or uninterested by the bickering between his fellow companions.

“Ah, my apologies,” Hank continues, looking embarrassed and a little flustered. “Let me introduce you to the others. This is Ororo,” he says, pointing to the woman who dips her head in greeting, giving Charles a warm and friendly smile. “And this is Logan and Azazel. They’re the Chieftain’s War Council members, along with Emma, who unfortunately isn’t here with us today to greet you.”

It takes a few moments for Charles’ mind to comprehend Hank’s words, but then he stiffens with shock; here are the other alphas who will be mating him tonight, along with their Chieftain. The ones who will be party to his defilement in front of hundreds of pairs of unfriendly eyes, to be used for their pleasure regardless of Charles’ willingness or comfort. He takes an involuntary step back, a move that seems to surprise all but Ororo, who says something low and soft to Hank, before turning away, dragging the other alphas behind her.

Hank does not translate Ororo’s words, though he seems distressed and ill at ease. With a sigh, he turns to Charles and offers a weak smile, and then points to the wooden stairs leading up into the main structure.

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. Let’s get you settled in, shall we?”

\----

The Chieftain is a handsome, if severe looking man in his mid to late forties, over two decades his senior, and already sporting silver streaks in his dark brown hair.  He sweeps into the room like a brewing storm, interrupting their idle conversation over a cup of tea, and stares at Charles, eyes cold and face unreadable, until Hank coughs uncomfortably, and draws his gaze.

Their conversation is intense, and not entirely friendly, with Hank snapping a few times in response to the Chieftain’s words. Finally, after what appears to be Hank yielding to the Chieftain’s demands, his companion turns to him with a tight frown.

“This is Erik Lehnsherr…he’s our Chieftain, as you know,” Hank explains, clearly dreading whatever message he’s been asked to translate. “He bids you welcome, and hopes you will be happy amongst us. He ah…wishes to ensure that you’re in good health, and has asked that I examine you, before tonight’s ceremony.”

“I assure you, I’m in perfect health.”  
  
Hank sighs, and scrubs his face tiredly with his hand. “I’m sorry, but Erik is insisting that I check you over, to make sure that—”

Rage, cold and visceral hits him like a tidal wave, and he has to bite back the urge to snarl his response. “If your Chieftain is concerned for my virtue, there is no need. My stepfather made sure to keep me whole and untouched for just such an occasion, to be a fitting tribute. You have my word…will that be enough for you? Or must I suffer this humiliation too?”

“You misunderstand,” Hank says, dismayed at the face of Charles’ fury. “He doesn’t care about your virtue at all. I mean…he’s wary of an assassination attempt, against himself and the Council. He wants me to check you for poisons.”

Charles stares at them both in shock. “You think…you think Kurt did what? Poison my…insides? To kill you? Are you insane?”

But Hank has no time to answer, before the Chieftain crosses the room and grabs Charles, pulling him out of his seat and into his arms. Ignoring Hank’s protestations, he wraps his hands around the chastity belt on Charles’ hips, making him sputter, and then the belt unbuckles as though by magic, breaking into pieces and falling at his feet.

Any other time, he would be amazed by the show of the Chieftain’s power; his sister – the only other mutant he’d met before today – disappeared long ago from Westchester, forced to run for her life when Marko took over the throne.  As it is, Charles is too surprised when he feels the plug moving next, sliding out of him slowly and making him gasp. It floats out from under his robes and through the air, and drops with a soft clang into a metal bowl held in the Chieftain’s hand.

Charles flushes, and Hank looks appalled, though the Chieftain – Erik – appears completely unbothered.  He is still holding Charles intimately, one arm wrapped around his waist, and barking what he assumes to be orders at Hank as he thrusts the bowl into the healer’s hands. Without another word, he proceeds to drag Charles out of the room and into the adjoining chamber, heedless of Hank’s objections or Charles’ indignant shouts.

When they are alone in what is clearly his bedroom – with piles of weapons and clothing heaped next to a luxurious pallet covered in furs – Erik stops, wrapping his arms once again around Charles’ waist. The Chieftain stares at him for long moments with those cool, steely eyes, drinking him in, before sliding his hands over Charles’ body, mapping him slowly through the thin layer of silk. He moves leisurely, almost reverently, up his back to his shoulders and then down his arms, never taking his eyes off Charles’ face as deft fingers begin undoing the fastenings of his robes. There is no sound from the Chieftain as he undresses him, save for the short intake of breath when Charles’ robes fall off his shoulders to pool at his feet, revealing his nude body completely to the man who would be his mate.

But Erik doesn’t embrace him, or lean forward to kiss him; instead he takes a step back and circles him, as Cain did just a few hours before. It is disheartening to think that Charles’ fate here will be the same as it was in Westchester – to be an object of lust and a tool for pleasure. He stares straight ahead and does not move even as Erik continues touching him, gritting his teeth at the feel of calloused hands on his back. Bracing himself as they slide down to cup his buttocks gently before prying them apart, tracing the rim of Charles’ opening with his finger tips.

It would be better, Charles thinks, for the Chieftain to take him now, in private; easier to bear the scrutiny of all those eyes if he knows what to expect. But Erik cares only to touch, exploring every inch of Charles’ body except for the collar he still wears around his neck. That, the Chieftain avoids with apparent distaste, though he does not break it apart as he did with the chastity belt, seemingly content to deprive Charles of his power as freely as he uses his own.

Once Erik is finished with his inspection, he takes Charles over to the pallet, directing him to climb on top of the furs. The Chieftain himself does not follow, though he does unfasten his cape with his powers, floating it to the ground by its iron clasp. He reaches to free himself from his trousers with a grunt and then waits, looking at Charles’ expectantly as he guides his erection towards Charles’ face.

His cock is already flushed and hard, and Erik himself looks impatient with lust, staring at Charles’ lips like a man starved. It’s not something Charles has ever done, pleasuring an alpha like this, and he has no idea what he’s supposed to do, other than to open his mouth. But that seems to be sufficient for Erik’s needs, the man groaning with pleasure as he pushes past Charles’ lips and starts fucking his mouth without warning.

Charles doesn’t gag, though it’s a close thing, as Erik pumps his hips, his hands gripping Charles on either side of his head. They’re not pulling on his hair, and the Chieftain is only driving half of his rather large cock in and out of Charles’ mouth, and yet he’s never felt more uncomfortable or debauched in his life, eyes watering and desperate for breath.

It goes on for what feels like hours, with Erik fucking in just a little deeper with every thrust, until he stills and drags Charles forward, splashing his seed down Charles’ throat with a shout. The taste of it is foul, and makes Charles retch, but not before he’s forced to swallow half of it, before Erik finally pulls out of his mouth.

He’s still coughing, release dripping from his lips when Erik hands him a glass, and a cloth for cleaning. Charles downs the water with relief and wipes his face, and refuses to look up as Erik tucks himself back in, his movements languid and the tension gone. He leans down then, and brushes a long finger against Charles’ cheek before guiding him down onto the pallet, covering him with his furs.

Erik does leave him alone then – no doubt to rest up for later, Charles thinks bitterly – though not before he reshapes a new plug from a silver sphere he pulls from his pocket, and slips it inside Charles with a satisfied hum.

 


	3. A Genoshan Welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bonding ceremony, and a Genoshan welcome.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg this took forever to write! It's all just filthy, filthy porn....so yeah hope you enjoy!
> 
>  **Edited to Add:** Translations for Erik's and the Council's words during the ceremony have been added to notes at the end of the chapter!

When Charles steps out of the Chieftain’s tents, it’s to a sea of bonfires, under the darkness of a starlit sky.

There are fires lit throughout the makeshift city, with the largest roaring not far from where Charles now stands, on the newly erected platform in front of the Chieftain’s lodgings. Around them sit hundreds of Genoshans young and old, riotous in their merrymaking as they feast and laugh and sing with abandon. It’s like nothing Charles has ever known in his sheltered life; what it is to be so happy amongst family and friends.

What it is to be _free_.

He’d been dressed once more in his robes by a young beta with dark hair and gossamer wings, who spoke to him firmly, if not unkindly, in words Charles didn’t understand. Once he drank the mug of mead she nudged into his hands, he was guided back into the main room where Erik was waiting, dressed in nothing but boots and a pair of soft leather breeches. His arms and his torso were covered in intricate patterns, black ink etched into his skin that crisscrossed muscle and scar, making him look every bit as fierce and barbaric as Cain’s stories of the marauding mutant horde.

And then Erik had taken more of the silver metal he carried, and fashioned cuffs for Charles’ wrists and ankles, to match the collar he wore around his neck.

It was a humiliation that he swallowed without comment, since Erik wouldn’t understand his words, nor was he likely to care for Charles’ feelings.

He is seated now up on the platform with the Chieftain and his Council, with Erik and Ororo to his left and Logan and Azazel to his right. All are dressed in the same manner as their leader, their chests bare save for their markings. So too are many of the Genoshans assembled around them in all directions, all seemingly at ease in the same state of half-dress. Charles – in his complicated, if flimsy silk – feels odd and out of place here; an outsider unable to leave and reluctant to stay.

They feast on great platters of roast lamb and chicken and fish, along with breads and vegetable dishes that would not be unfamiliar at home. Charles finds himself devouring everything Ororo puts on his plate, having barely eaten for most of the day, and downing mug after mug of the ale that Azazel pours him with a grin. He watches enraptured as mutants come one after the other to show off their powers, beautiful and glorious in the way they all embrace and celebrate their gifts without fear.

At last, when the moon is high, the exhibition comes to an end, and the children are led away from the fires and put to bed. The remnants of the feast are cleared by helpful hands, and replaced by a pile of soft cushions and furs, large and inviting. Charles shivers, knowing what will happen next, and tries not to flinch when Erik takes his hand and pulls him to his feet, to stand in front of the suddenly hushed and riveted assembly.

He says Charles’ name loudly to his people, and then follows with more incomprehensible words. Charles wishes now more than ever to tear the damned collar from his throat, so he can _hear_ and _understand_ the thoughts of those gathered around him. As it is he must bear the weight of their stares and guess at their intent, and has to hide the shiver that runs down his spine when Erik moves behind him, leaving him captive to the mob’s penetrating gaze.

Yet Charles finds himself surprised by the expressions he sees on their faces; there is lust yes, but also curiosity and no small amount of awe, and none of the hatred or disdain he’d expected. It does lessen the fear that’s starting to claw up his throat; the idea that these warriors don’t want to hurt him, beyond bearing witness to his very public violation. 

Erik squeezes his shoulders, so light he almost misses it, and then peels his robes away with a great flourish, leaving him bare and exposed in the flickering firelight. It takes every ounce of composure he can find for Charles not to flinch, or try to cover himself, letting the swell of excited murmurs wash over him for long, agonizing seconds. It becomes almost unbearable, the urge to run overwhelming, until finally, he turns at the sound of someone shifting behind him, and sees Azazel shrugging off his boots and trousers.

Up close, the man is intimidating to behold, the scars on his face telling tales of battles fought and won; his tail and red skin giving him an aura of wildness that takes Charles’ breath away. It paralyzes him with fear to think what this man – this _alpha_ , along with the others – will do to him; things he’s never even dreamt about before. That they’ll touch him and taste him and make him submit, and he’ll be forced to take their seed and bear their offspring, as the broodmare his stepfather no doubt intended.    

“Daka-ru, mena ek tah.”

The words are spoken solemnly with an air of promise, as Azazel reaches to take Charles in his arms and kisses him, softly at first, and then with increasing fervor. Azazel’s pupils are dilated and his hands greedy; he presses Charles’ mouth open with his tongue, and laughs when he gets a soft groan in response. With a quick twist of his tail, Azazel grabs him by the waist and yanks him close, rubbing wet streaks from his erection all over Charles’ hip.

All around them the night is near silent, the air charged with electricity, the crowd watching the proceedings with bated breath. Do they wait, eager to see if Charles succumbs? Or perhaps their interest is simply to see him laid to ruin; to see the virgin prince cry and beg for mercy.

The night provides no answers, and Charles finds himself quickly distracted; Azazel circles behind him and drops to his knees, wrapping his arms around Charles as though in supplication. He’s confused, and then surprised, when he feels the plug slide out of him, slowly and easily with a soft schlick. Fingers slip in to fill the empty space, followed by an agile tongue, penetrating Charles and working him open, his shame mixing with pleasure in an intoxicating high.

They all stare at him transfixed, as Azazel licks his pucker with increasing gusto, and tongues his clenching passage with unabashed delight. It’s making him wetter by the minute, Azazel’s mouth and his own slick, his body easing the way for its own defilement. Shuddering with every swipe he keens, and then almost bites his tongue, trying – and failing – to hide how good it feels, unable to hold back the arousal making his blood sing. Charles flushes hot from humiliation and desire both as he rocks against Azazel’s tongue – again and again, keening, _writhing_ , panting for more – until he’s coming with a shout, the sound exploding from his lungs and echoing like a shot across the open plain.

A great roar reverberates from the onlookers, as they clap and stamp their feet with raucous approval. Charles’ knees buckle and he almost collapses into a heap, but Azazel catches him and lowers him onto the furs, chuckling and biting kisses up and down his neck. He spares a quick glance at the Chieftain and the others as he catches his breath, and sees their eyes all locked on him, intent and unwavering; sees that their clothes have already been discarded, their bodies beautiful and inviting.

And clearly impatient to take their own turn.

But Charles’ musings are cut short then by a rough kiss from Azazel, who drags impatient hands through his hair, and then tips him backwards onto the furs. Now that the tension’s been broken the alpha is more eager, and much less worshipful; he slots himself between Charles’ thighs and spreads his legs, using his long tail to pin Charles’ hands immobile above his head.

He’s been breached today by fingers, plugs, and a tongue, but nothing could have prepared him for _this_ ; for the feel of Azazel’s cock pushing through and sliding in, thick and hard and splitting him open. Gasping for air, he arches, which Azazel takes as an invitation to move, sinking in and bottoming out with a pleased grunt. It’s _too much_ and _too fast_ and he feels full to bursting, and Charles can’t rightly tell what he wants – to shove Azazel off of him or beg him for more.  

The buzz surrounding him dims to a dull roar, as Charles writhes against the firm and muscular body, pinning him down and driving in deep. Azazel rocks into him, setting a bracing rhythm, making him groan as every part of him burns from unexpected pleasure. He closes his eyes and grits his teeth; he doesn’t want everyone to hear him, panting and groaning every time Azazel drives his hips, the gasps and whines being punched out of him with each relentless, forceful stroke –

He’s _not_ shameless, or wanton, no matter what Cain says…Charles doesn’t _want_ this; to be used and fucked for the crowd like so much entertainment.

And then Azazel rolls them over without any warning, making his head spin, changing their positions so that Charles is the one straddling him on the furs. From this angle, he can see _everything_ , the grinning faces and hungry eyes, all watching them, _staring_ as Azazel grips him by the hips and bucks up and down like a wild stallion. He tries to push away, to snatch at the furs by his feet but then Azazel grabs his wrists with his tail again, and pins them behind his back without slowing his pace. Azazel just keeps going and going, heedless of his strangled cries, until he finally comes in hot, sticky spurts, pulsing inside Charles with a loud, triumphant shout.

“Daka-ru, mena tau weh knet,” Azazel pants.

This time the words are accompanied by a soft chuckle, as Azazel pulls him down and cradles him almost tenderly against his chest.  Charles feels wrung out already, skin tight and hole stretched wide, and wonders how he’ll ever survive the night with three more alphas waiting to fuck him.

Luckily, Ororo approaches with a mug of ale and helps him up, letting him drink his fill. It quenches his thirst if not the heat coursing through his veins, the low simmer starting to make his head feel light and muzzy. He barely notices being lifted or Azazel pulling out, nor does he fight against the hands guiding him down, pushing him backwards onto the furs.

“Daka-ru, mena ek tah,” Ororo whispers, as she takes Azazel’s place between his legs. He expects Azazel to go back to his seat, now that he’s had his turn; instead the alpha simply moves off to the side and waits, watching as Ororo brushes the matted curls from Charles’ face. Humming softly, she leans in to kiss him then, soft and deep, a promise of passion and tenderness and delight. Her hair, dazzling white from the glow of the firelight, cascades like a waterfall, a sight that makes Charles gape in helpless wonder. It feels surprisingly intimate too, the way Ororo holds him close, the sights and sounds fading away as she slides in, burying her entire length in him with one long, steady push.

She pins him against the furs and fucks him, arms curled behind his knees, murmuring sweet sounding words in his ear. Unlike Azazel, she takes her time with him, pulling out leisurely before slamming back in, stealing Charles’ breath from his lungs with every stroke. Her hands move to grip his thighs and then slowly up to his ankles, spreading him wide as he clutches – gently, if desperately – at her breasts.

He spares a thought for how he must look, bent almost double with his legs in the air, but soon finds himself distracted, groaning as she shifts. The sharp change in angle makes him arch his back and wail, a reaction that draws a grin from Ororo and a boisterous cheer from the masses. It feels glorious and mortifying in equal measure, and when Azazel reaches for his cock, it obliterates the last of Charles’ defenses, his resistance fleeing him utterly from a few strokes of the alpha’s hand.

It makes him clench hard, which sends Ororo over the edge, her hips slamming faster and faster until she comes with a breathless, blissful groan. It’s hot, and wet and fills Charles to overflowing, leaking languidly from his hole and down his thighs, mixed with Azazel’s earlier release. Charles is sweating profusely and his muscles are sore, and yet he’s still mad with _want_ when Ororo slips out, leaving Charles feeling empty and hollow and ravenous for _more_.

“Please,” he moans, as the heat overtakes him; Charles has never felt like this, so desperate and insatiable, every inch of him burning for hands and mouths and the high of being filled. There are more words from Ororo – who helps him drink again from a mug of water – whispered against his skin, and then Charles is being hauled into someone’s arms with a grunt, and impaled on another cock, splitting him open.

It’s Logan now – yes, Logan, the surly, muscular one that looks at Charles with dark and feral eyes – bouncing him on his lap, thick arms wrapped around Charles’ waist like a vise. Logan does not tease or bestow gentle kisses; no, he simply slams Charles up and down on his cock, growling as he sucks bruises into tender, delicate skin. They move, Charles’ arms around Logan’s neck, their limbs entangled as Logan drives his hips, like he wants to lodge himself inside Charles’ body and never let him go.

He moans and Logan chases the sound, taking his mouth and devouring it, clutching skin and flesh like he’s _ravenous_ for Charles, like he _can’t stop_ – 

And then somehow, he’s moving up, up, up in the air, his legs dangling uselessly as Logan stands, completely unaffected by the weight of Charles’ writhing body. Logan doesn’t slow his rhythm as he moves, plunging in and out without pause even as Charles clings harder, scrambling with arms and legs to hold on. He floats, weightless and out of time as Logan rams ever deeper, the world spinning out of control, his body soaring higher and higher and higher and higher—

The world seems to tilt sideways as Charles topples over the edge, going white and silent as he bucks, splattering his seed all over Logan’s bare chest. The crowd cheers, and Logan murmurs his approval but doesn’t stop; he just keeps pumping his hips as Charles quivers, body sagging from the intensity of every pulse. He has no idea how much longer Logan continues to fuck him then, with Charles barely holding himself upright, before the alpha spills inside him with a growl, coating his walls with come, trickling like drops of rain from where they’re joined.

It occurs to Charles to wonder then, mind drifting and body limp, why the alphas have yet to knot with him, though they’ve all but flooded him full of their seed. And why the Chieftain has done nothing but watch as his generals take their turns, making Charles submit; in body at least, if not – not _yet_ , and hopefully not _ever_ – in mind.

But no, Erik is still seated in the same spot as the others move to surround Charles, blocking him almost completely from the Chieftain’s view. There are so many hands on him, petting and stroking him, rubbing his tired muscles and his bruising skin. He lets them hoist him around like a ragdoll, barely aware of what they’re doing until Logan – Logan, who is still embedded inside of him – pulls him down against his chest and reaches to spread his cheeks. He cries out when a second cock prods his tender and abused hole, breaching him, slotting in slowly as Charles quakes and shudders; whimpers as Azazel grips his hips and grinds in, stretching Charles’ entrance wider than he ever thought possible.

Logan and Azazel alternate their thrusts, sandwiching Charles between their hard bodies as they fuck him, setting a relaxed and easy pace. He can’t move, can scarcely breathe as he’s stretched and stuffed, fingers curled tightly around the damp hairs on Logan’s chest. It might just kill him he thinks, this overwhelming bliss, edged with pain, and Charles doesn’t realize he’s tearing up until Ororo swipes a long finger against his cheek, and licks the salty tracts streaking down his face.

She tastes like his tears when she parts his lips, kissing him, fingers running through his hair as she tilts his head up to meet her. Charles nuzzles each breast as she offers them next, running the tip of his tongue over hard nipples, making her moan as he suckles the soft swell of her sweat slicked flesh. And when she brushes the tip of her cock across his lips, he takes her in and swallows her down, humming against the wet slide along his tongue and down his throat.

Charles doesn’t remember when they come, but they do, one after the other, spilling in his mouth and in his tight channel, drowning him in an ecstasy of delirious, intoxicating highs. It feels _wrong_ afterwards, when he finds himself empty and adrift, when they pull away and leave him there, alone on the furs, wrecked and sullied and still hungry for _more, more, more_.

All around him the Genoshans roar, and a drum begins to sound in the distance – _boom_ , _boom_ , _boom_ – to the beat of his racing heart. From the corner of his eye he sees the Chieftain move, finally, _finally_ , across the platform to kneel at his side, sweeping Charles into his arms as the throng begins to chant:

 _“Daka-ru, Daka-ru, Daka-ru, Daka-ru_ —“

He won’t remember this night, Charles thinks, in the days and weeks to come; it is all too fantastic and surreal, nothing but an endless blur of sensations and sounds. But he’ll always remember the way Erik is looking at him now with those captivating eyes, wholly dark and possessive, and the way he kisses with his whole body, cradling Charles like the most precious thing; like Erik’s life depended on Charles’ everything.

They move to the very front of the platform, Charles’ arms slung around Erik’s neck, Erik’s hands roaming over him, kneading the aches from his bones and wiping the leaking seed from his body. He hums when Erik bites his bottom lip, and moans when Erik tugs his hair, a move that shouldn’t make his toes curl and send shivers up and down his spine. Charles closes his eyes and tries to ignore his conflicting feelings; that it shouldn’t feel so _right_ to be touched by this man, this _stranger_ , or how much he wants to give in to him with his entire being.

And then Erik is maneuvering him onto his lap, turning Charles outwards to face the restless crowd. With his powers he tugs Charles’ wrist cuffs behind Erik’s neck, and then uses the cuffs on Charles’ ankles to spread his legs wide. There is nowhere to hide as Erik lifts him up and pushes in; as Erik grips him by his thighs and penetrates him, bouncing him up and down on his swollen prick. Words are murmured into his hair with every harsh slam of Erik’s hips; words like an invocation even as Charles is made to strip himself layer by layer, shredding his dignity along with his pride, a spectacle for the Genoshans as surely as he’s ever been for Cain.

He cries out when a metal ring wraps suddenly around his stiff erection, the metal reformed from bits of his ankle cuffs, holding him hostage from his own release. It strokes him slowly, warming and throbbing under the Chieftain’s control, placing even Charles’ pleasure at his tender mercy. He doesn’t know how long Erik fucks him like this, his legs open so everyone can _see_ ; can see Erik’s shaft sinking in and out of his leaking hole, see it stretching wide and welcoming and _so obscene_ , before something hard is – _gods_ – swelling inside him and he’s screaming--

\--and then he’s on his hands and knees, and Erik is rutting into him as the Genoshans roar, and Charles has never felt so filthy yet so _adored_ , even as he’s being plundered and split apart…

“ _Daka-ru, met ta knu ai met_!” Erik cries, and then he’s coming hard, flooding Charles’ insides with his seed. There’s _so much_ of it, hot and wet and pulsing on and on, making Charles howl at the feel of it; being filled to the edge of pain, the urge to expel overridden by the knot. Erik collapses on top of him for long moments, panting harshly in his ear, and then he’s lifting Charles to his feet – Erik’s knot still wedged inside of him – and carrying him up and away from the mob’s deafening cries.

\----

The omega – his _mate_ now, in this life and the next – drifts in and out of consciousness as Erik gently places him onto the bed. He catalogues the bruises that are starting to purple on the previously unmarked skin, and tamps down the wave of jealousy that threatens to overtake him. He is the Chieftain after all, and must follow the traditions of his clan, no matter his personal feelings on his Council tasting what should solely belong to _him_.

“You’re mine now,” he whispers, as Xavier shifts blithely in his arms, arching his back and sending a shiver of lust down Erik’s spine. His knot pulses, and he starts pumping his hips, and then he’s grunting with pleasure as another orgasm hits, splashing hot and sticky again inside that beautiful, delectable body.

He kisses the nape of his omega’s neck with a sigh, before drifting – sated and content – into a calm and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _'Daka-ru, mena ek tah = ‘Blessed Bearer, I honor you’_ (by Erik, Azazel, Logan and Ororo before mating with Charles)
> 
>  _‘Daka-ru, mena tau weh knet’ = ‘Blessed Bearer, my loyalty is yours’_ (by the Council members after mating with Charles)
> 
>  _‘Daka-ru, met ta knu ai met’ = ‘Blessed Bearer, my life is bound to yours’_ (by Erik after mating with Charles)


	4. Intentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation between Erik and Ororo, before the ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place immediately after Chapter 2, from Erik's POV. Also, Ororo calls Charles 'poor boy' because he's quite young compared to Erik and the Council. Charles is in his early twenties while Erik, Ororo, and Emma are in their forties. Logan is 100+ and Azazel is...well nobody knows how old he is lol. :D

When Erik steps back into the room, Ororo is already there, waiting in one of the chairs with a cup of tea in her hand. Her sharp eyes jump immediately from his face to the front of his breeches, and to his hands which have just finished adjusting his belt back into place.

“You didn’t—”

“No,” Erik interrupts, because her concerns are unfounded, even if the circumstances had been more than tempting. “He is untouched. I would not dishonor my own mate in such a way, and deny him a proper bonding ceremony.”

Ororo arches a skeptical brow at him, before taking a long sip from her tea. “Untouched, as in you didn’t knot him. But you did…oh what _is_ that term the good people of Westchester use? You ‘ _tasted the goods_ ’ did you not?”

Erik huffs impatiently, and drops into the chair across from her with a frown. “What do you want?”

“You’re sure you want to take him as your mate? Logan says he--”

“Logan can’t have him,” Erik snarls, his hands curling reflexively into fists. “He’s mine. Tell the bastard to get his own omega.”

“He _said_ ,” Ororo continues, completely ignoring Erik’s outburst, “he doesn’t understand why you left his collar on. He thinks you dislike Xavier; that you mean to mistreat him. Humiliate him.”

Erik shakes his head and sighs. “I already told you why…I don’t dislike him. Why would I have agreed to Marko’s ‘deal’ if I didn’t want him? But I can’t trust him yet, Ororo. Not until I’m sure of his intentions. He’s their Prince; his allegiance is with his own people, not with us.”

He ignores her exasperated sigh, and pours himself a mug of ale as she continues, “You could just _ask_ him. I mean, Hank could translate all your questions, couldn’t he?”

“McCoy’s too soft. He thinks everybody tells the truth and has the best of intentions.”

“So what? You’re going to keep a _suppression_ collar on the Chieftain’s mate--”

“Just until Emma and Jean get here with the rest of the tribe! Then we can be sure he’s not hiding anything from us. Or planning to spy for the Markos! I don’t care who he is or what he is, I’m not going to risk the wellbeing of our people for some stranger with a pretty face!”

He doesn’t understand why Ororo – or Logan – are even questioning his actions or his intent; Erik’s priority has always been the safety and security of the Genoshans in his care. At least Azazel seems to understand that his dealings with Xavier are pragmatic and not personal; he knows absolutely nothing about the omega except that he’s a telepath, and had no more than a quick glimpse of him before his arrival at the encampment today.

If Emma was here, _she_ would no doubt applaud him for his caution, instead of berating him for his perceived mistreatment of Xavier.

Then again if Emma was here, she’d uncover any secrets that Xavier might be keeping in a heartbeat, and they wouldn’t be wasting time and energy on this ridiculous argument.

“Fine, Erik. But the people aren’t going to appreciate seeing their Bearer collared like a slave. And if you tell them why; that Xavier’s a possible spy, or a danger to the tribe, they’ll never accept him as one of us. He’ll be tainted in their eyes forever, even if he turns out to be completely innocent. You might as well give him to Logan now if that’s the case.”

Erik grunts, taking another long drink from his mug. “It’ll be fine. I’ll adorn him with metal. They’ll see it as a token of my esteem.”

“Sounds like you have everything under control then,” she answers mildly, before those sharp eyes flicker in the direction of his bedroom, and Xavier in his bed. “Did you at least think to have Hank explain things to the poor boy, so you don’t frighten him to death tonight? That the ceremony is a way for us to honor his presence in our tribe, and that we are swearing oaths to him of protection? And loyalty? That it must be public so all will witness our promise? He’s not Genoshan, Erik. He won’t understand our customs.”

Erik shakes his head. “The less he knows about us and our ways the better. We can explain things to him later. When we’re sure. And the time is right.”

Ororo hops to her feet and pats him on the shoulder, chuckling merrily as she makes her way out of Erik’s tent.

“Good luck with that, oh great Chieftain of mine. I really hope you don't end up regretting it.”


	5. Gifts from the Council

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hank gives Charles some good news. And the Council spends time with their Chieftain's Consort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a remarkable lack of sex in this chapter for a fic I intended solely as a PWP lol. Also, Erik is going to be better at this...eventually :D
> 
> 'Zu mena' = 'You're mine'

Hank gives him the news only two weeks later, after a slight dizzy spell over breakfast that sees him hurriedly escorted back to bed despite his vigorous objections. The attendants fuss over him, giving him water and fixing his blankets, a bewildering show of concern from the Genoshans after so much time spent gawking at him from a polite, if somewhat isolating distance.

“Congratulations, Your Highness,” Hank says, turning away to give Charles time to adjust his clothing, after having poked and prodded him in various personal and rather delicate places, “you’re pregnant.”

“Really?” Charles asks, his fingers clutching at the furs laid out on Erik’s – or rather, on _their_ – bed. “Are you sure? Isn’t it a little soon to know for certain?”

“Not at all; you’re showing all the symptoms of pregnancy – dizziness, loss of appetite, weight gain—“

Charles snorts, “Weight gain? Really Hank.”

“—plus your womb is changing already, with the mucous barrier that’s developing to protect the babies while they grow inside of you.”

That’s a lot of information to digest all at once, and Charles is already feeling a little queasy from the morning’s meal of porridge and dried fruit. He decides to address the point of most interest and relevance as the Chieftain’s mate, while Hank ducks out of the room for a few quick moments, returning with a steaming cup in his hand. “Babies? As in more than one? Do you…exactly how many babies am I carrying?”

He takes the mug from Hank with a grateful smile, letting the warmth of the liquid seep into the palms of hands. There’s the scent of herbs and spices wafting from the mixture, and Charles breathes it in deeply, before taking a sip.

It tastes absolutely vile.

“Drink it all please, it’s good for the babies,” Hank says, grinning at the face Charles makes as he forces himself to take another sip of whatever it is the mad witchdoctor has concocted for him. “We won’t know how many exactly until they’re born, unless we’re lucky and I can count the number of heads in a few months. Either way, as an omega you’re bound to carry multiples. Anywhere from two to six, though three or four are about average.”

“And do you know when they were conceived? I mean, do you think it happened the first night? Or is it more likely to have occurred…later?”

He can’t quite bring himself to ask outright, the possibility that his children had been sired by more than one alpha. There had been the Chieftain of course, but also the three other members of his Council that first night, taking turns mounting him in front of the entire tribe, filling him to the brim with their seed…

Of course they could all turn out to be Erik’s children if conception happened later, since he’d been knotted almost continuously by the Chieftain for a full three days afterwards.

Hank takes a seat beside Charles and smiles. “It’s likely that your children will have at least two different sires, if not more,” he says, patting Charles’ hand in an attempt to comfort. “But you mustn’t worry about that, Your Highness. Our ways are not your ways; all your children will be loved by the tribe equally, no matter their alpha parent. And the Chieftain and the Council will all take equal delight in supporting you through your pregnancy.”

“That’s…good,” Charles replies, thankful at least that none of the children he bears will risk being ostracized by the Genoshans, or worse.  

“And the next time, you are welcome to choose any or all of the Council members to mate with you again, along with the Chieftain of course; that is when you’re ready to get pregnant again. By then, Emma will be back with us and I’m sure she’ll want the chance to lay with you too—”

“Next time?” Charles cries, spilling his drink all over poor Hank’s tunic. “You think there’s going to be a next time? And I have to…with _all_ of them? Again? You have _got_ to be joking, I can’t possibly—”

\---

Charles doesn’t remember passing out mid-sentence, though he does wake some indeterminate amount of time later to the sound of an extremely irate Erik yelling at his well-meaning - if not exactly tactful - friend.

“Please stop shouting,” he groans, and they both stop mid argument to turn and stare, before Erik is abruptly at his side, grasping his hand tightly and rubbing his back. His touch is tentative and a little awkward, as though he’s afraid of injuring a suddenly delicate Charles; laughable, since there’d been no such concern when he had Charles on his knees for hours, taking his knot.

“Charles,” Erik murmurs, pressing a light kiss to the back of his hand. “Zu nak?”

“The Chieftain wants to know how you’re feeling,” Hank interprets, and Charles is grateful for his presence and his help translating his husband’s words; till now he’s had little interaction with anyone besides Erik, and their ‘communication’ had mostly been a series of grunts and gestures, interspersed infrequently between bouts of marathon sex.

“Tell him I’m fine, and not to blame you for what happened. I was just surprised that’s all, about the pregnancy and your customs. There’s no need for yelling.”

Erik’s frown deepens when Hank relays his message, but it does manage to end the man’s tirade against his erstwhile companion. There’s more muttering - with Erik speaking _at_ Hank and gesturing impatiently at his belly – and then a tired chuckle from the healer.

“The Chieftain wishes to relay his happiness at the blessed news,” Hank says, though judging by the scowl on his face, Erik seems anything but _happy,_ “and wants you to know that you will be well cared for during your pregnancy. If there’s anything you need at all, let him know and he’ll do his best to provide it.”

“That’s…kind of him,” Charles answers, and wonders at the choice of words. Would he _not_ be treated well and cared for, if it turned out that he couldn’t bear their offspring? At least his accompanying smile – small, if a bit uncertain – seems to make Erik’s expression soften just a little. “How do you say ‘thank you’ in Genoshan?”

“Matk te.”

“ _Matk te_ , Erik,” Charles says, squeezing the calloused fingers still gripping his hand. This time, Erik’s lips curve into an almost smile, prompting a pleased hum from Hank. He turns his attention back to his friend and asks, “Is there anything else I need to know? Or do, now that I’m pregnant?”

Hank shakes his head. “Just rest when you’re tired and make sure to eat your meals when they’re delivered, even if you’re not hungry. I’ll have your attendants bring you regular doses of the _barek fa,”_ he continues, pointing to what’s left of the evil concoction in the mug beside his bed. “Oh, and be sure to get fresh air and exercise. Now that a fortnight has passed and the official mating period is over you’ll have free run of the encampment. Go out and interact with the others; they’ve all been anxious to see you.”

“Oh,” Charles breathes, and the weight he doesn’t even know he’s been carrying lifts cleanly off his shoulders. He’d spent so much of his time the past two weeks in the Chieftain’s tent and in his bed, doing very little besides being fucked that he honestly thought—

“So I can go out and…” He pauses. “What would I even do here? I can’t communicate with anyone except you, Hank, since I don’t speak Genoshan, and you’re the only one who understands the Westchester tongue. Do I have any duties? As the Chieftain’s mate?”

Hank frowns a little, and says something to Erik, who responds sharply with a shake of his head. “Your only duty is to take care of yourself, and ensure the health of your unborn children,” Hank offers apologetically, and Charles wonders how much of his anger and disappointment is showing through, at being told outright that he has no value beyond that of a walking womb for Lehnsherr and his War Council. “I can give you some rudimentary lessons, Your Highness, if you wish,” he quickly adds, eyes darting furtively between Charles and Erik, “and of course I will translate your requests to the Chieftain. Is there anything you want me to tell him now? Anything that you need?”

He can start by taking this damned collar off, Charles thinks, fingers inching to yank it from his neck. But out loud he only says, “Nothing. Only some time alone to rest.”

His request prompts some more muttering between the other two, but Charles is disinclined to care. He watches, coolly detached as his mate retreats alongside the healer, letting out a shuddering breath only after they’ve disappeared beyond the flaps leading into the tent’s main living area. He rubs his stomach absently, and wonders if this is really all that different from his life with the Markos, being nothing more than an object of lust and a glorified prisoner.

Charles spends the next hour collecting his thoughts – stewing really, in self-pity and quiet fury over his predicament; pregnant and alone amongst people he can’t understand, and forced to share his bed with a virtual stranger. And it stings more than he cares to admit, that Erik seems content to keep their relationship strictly physical, showing little interest in getting to know Charles beyond the carnal pleasures of the flesh.

But in that at least, he can be certain of his mate’s appreciation and intent, as Erik is ever touching him, a thumb stroking his cheek, or hands seeking to touch warm skin under the layers of his new Genoshan-styled clothes. Some days Erik is gentle and sweet, guiding Charles down and kissing him, stripping him slowly before lavishing him with patient, attentive care. On others he simply pushes Charles onto his hands and knees and mounts him without fanfare, fucking roughly in and out as Charles writhes and keens on top of the furs. And always Erik takes what Charles can give and more, his appetite seemingly insatiable for his always yielding, if inexperienced lover.

Tired finally of feeling useless and unseen, Charles leaves the confines of the bed chamber, only to stumble across one of his attendants waiting on the other side; Alex, a young Genoshan near Charles’ age, with no outwardly discernible mutation. He and Angel – who he remembers meeting the first time just before the ceremony – have been his near constant companions, bringing his meals and tending to his various needs. They make no attempts to communicate with him, beyond miming the most simple instructions to ‘eat this’ or ‘bathe here’, hovering like silent sentries just out of sight though never far out of reach. More than once, he’d imagined them listening in from just beyond the tent flaps, at the slap, slap of slick flesh and the sharp cries jarred ever so vigorously from his kiss bruised lips.

He smiles in greeting, though it garners not much more than a grunt from Alex, which makes Charles sigh with barely concealed frustration. Choosing to ignore the burgeoning disappointment, he instead makes to exit the tent - expecting to be waylaid - only for Alex to follow dutifully instead, keeping pace at just a few steps behind him.

Emerging from the tent, he finds the sun shining brightly over the bustling encampment, the Genoshans all busy with their various duties for the day. From his vantage point, with the Chieftain’s tent situated on a slightly raised plateau Charles can see the entirety of the horde spread out across the open plains, hundreds upon hundreds of the men, women and children that are now ostensibly his new subjects. And though he does not know how they will take his presence amongst them – be courteous but distant, or openly forthright with their disdain – he is determined to see and to learn everything he can about the new life that awaits him.

Charles takes a deep breath of the late morning air, and heads purposefully towards the closest cluster of tents.

He strolls through the encampment at a leisurely pace, ignoring the many curious – though thankfully, not hostile – looks cast his way, enjoying the presence of people around him again after days of relative isolation. There is the reassuring hum of activity in all directions, with nets beings mended and meats and fruits being dried; baskets skillfully woven from long reeds and the studious milling of Westchester grown wheat for breads. In the distance he can make out the numerous sheep and cattle that sustain the Genoshans, along with the massive herd of majestic horses that give the ‘horde’ its name.

There is so much to see, and hear and absorb that it takes Charles much longer than he should to notice the small crowd of children trailing after him, keeping their distance from Alex but clearly intent on following their Chieftain’s mate. He slows, and turns to smile at them, eliciting squeals of delight and much whispering as the adults around them look on with fond amusement. Finally, one of the little girls – perhaps six or seven years of age, sporting webbed fingers and gills beneath a fall of dark hair – approaches him timidly and bows, before offering him a tiny, carefully bound bouquet of wild flowers.

The last of Charles’ earlier reservations fade away as he takes the bouquet from her hands, smiling as he kneels down to greet her, so they can see eye to eye. “ _Matk te,”_ he says, and watches as she grins excitedly, and then turn to yell something at her giggling friends. “I’m Charles. _Cha-rles_ ,” he adds, placing his hand on his chest and then motioning for her to share her name.

“Neeka,” she answers, pointing to her own chest, smile growing ever wider as Charles gently takes her hand. She leans forward and presses a quick kiss onto Charles’ cheek, and then abruptly turns away to rejoin the others, all of them laughing and shouting his name before running off and disappearing around the nearest row of tents.

He watches them for a few seconds before standing again, intending to resume his stroll only to find himself stepping straight into someone’s hard and muscular chest. It startles Charles enough to almost fall backwards onto the ground, if not for the hands catching him deftly and holding him upright.

“Tel mat,” the gruff voice says, and then Alex is shouting something from behind him, causing him to look up in consternation at the person still clutching Charles in his arms. He stiffens when he realizes who it is; Logan, who immediately lets go – albeit gently, taking care to steady Charles on his feet – and turns to growl something menacingly in Alex’s direction.

The heated exchange between his attendant and a member of the War Council draws the unwanted attention of everyone around them, leaving Charles rather discomfited at the show of barely veiled hostility. But then a gentle hand grasps him gently on the shoulder, just as Ororo’s voice cuts through to quickly silence the bickering.

She shares words with Logan, and sharper words with Alex - who looks chagrined if still a little defiant – before turning back to Charles again, offering him an arm and a reassuring smile, “Daka-ru. _Charles_ , du kaft mat laut?”

Keen to disperse the onlookers and eager to move beyond whatever argument he’d unwittingly started, Charles accepts Ororo’s arm with a relieved smile of his own. He glances at Logan too and smiles, a proper greeting and in thanks for not letting him fall, which nets him a bizarre half smile, half grimace and an awkward nod in return.

Charles sighs, wishing yet again that he had use of his telepathy, if only to help ease communications between himself and the rest of the tribe. “Yes, let’s get out of here.”

The crowd quickly parts to let them pass, and Ororo leads them all to a section of the encampment Charles has yet to visit; to a wide open field to the west where men and women are busy training for war. Archers both on and off horseback show their prowess with bow and arrow, while others spar with swords and axes, or wrestle on the ground as their brethren cheers. Here too he finds the last of the War Council in their midst, with Azazel overseeing a group of teens as they practice fighting with their gifts, using fire and ice and all manner of other fantastical powers. Charles watches them with a mixture of envy and unmitigated delight, admiring the way the Genoshans embrace and nurture their mutations, so unlike his own experience growing up in the Westchester court.

As before Charles finds himself subject to curious stares, as Ororo leads him past the practice ring towards a pile of weapons on the ground. There seems to be all manner of swords and daggers, axes and spears as well as a number of fine recurve bows favored by the Genoshans. He spends a few minutes admiring the various pieces and their craftsmanship, before Logan grunts something and points at Charles, and then offers him a bow in one hand and a short sword in the other.

Bewildered, Charles shakes his head, uncertain if he’s being asked to spar as yet another bizarre Genoshan tradition no one had cared to explain. But Ororo merely smiles at him again and takes the bow from Logan’s hand, grabbing an arrow offered by one of the other archers before moving into position.

She hits the furthest target dead in the center, more than three hundred yards away.

The others roar with approval, and Charles too is impressed with her finely honed accuracy and easy grace. He finds his curiosity stirred by the inherent beauty in the Genoshans’ favored weapon, and buoyed by the reception he’s received thus far, picks up a second bow and accompanying arrows, and takes his own turn at the target.

Shorter than the Westchester bow he knows and harder to draw, Charles misses even the closest of the targets on his first two clumsy tries. A third shot manages to land on the target, if only just, while his next two garners enthusiastic shouting from the spectators as they each hit their mark. With each arrow fired Charles grows more confident, and feels less out of control, reveling in the approval of the tribe’s best warriors, and the admiration radiating from the three members of the Council.

Too soon he’s being pulled away from archery practice by a hovering Logan, who hands him a water skin with another soft grunt. So lost in the excitement of the morning – with his visit amongst the tribe, plus the fresh air and physical exercise – that Charles is only now realizing he’s both parched _and_ hungry, and quickly empties the cool liquid down his throat with an appreciative hum.

He wipes the edge of his mouth with the back of hand and catches Logan watching, staring rather intently at Charles licking his lips. It makes him flush hot to remember that this man had taken him once already, and wary that the Council’s friendly overtures are simply to make amends for his public claiming. Or perhaps it’s their way of planting the seed for the future; to make Charles amenable to more sex.

But it’s nothing Charles wants to think about _now_ , while he’s enjoying the company of the Genoshans for the first time since his arrival, and feeling hopeful for a role here beyond hostage and broodmare. Even potential friends would be a good start, with this small core group of people; after all, he’s had more interesting interaction in an hour with _them_ than for the entirety of the past two weeks with his own mate.

“Charles,” Logan says, and gently takes him by the arm, loose enough that he can pull away easily; it’s an intentional courtesy that Charles both recognizes and appreciates. “Mek hetcah.”

He smiles and lets himself be drawn over to the others, where Ororo is facing off against an increasingly irate Alex, a stoic Azazel at her side. Neither look particularly fazed by Alex’s heated words and sharp gestures, which include an occasional hand waved a little wildly in his direction. Charles guesses that his long absence from the Chieftain’s tent is the reason for Alex’s anger, having likely been told to keep a close eye on him, and not to let him stray too far from his comfortable prison.

Having tasted this little bit of freedom, Charles is rather opposed to an early return.

Ororo shoots him a quick grin, and reaches to take his hand at the same time that Azazel wraps his arm deftly around Charles’ waist. There’s a sudden flash of smoke that obscures his vision - along with a dizzying sense of displacement - and then he’s almost falling forward into empty space if not for all the hands still holding on to him.

“What just…?”

The question trails off unfinished, caught off guard as he is by the abrupt change to their surroundings. Gone are the training grounds, the archers, and even _Alex_ ; somehow, they appear to have moved clear across the other side of the encampment in the mere blink of an eye, to an area housing a circle of large tents around an open fire pit.

He looks up at the others in amazement, thrilled at the demonstration of another new power, and laughs when Azazel gives him a sweeping bow, face brimming with playful mirth. Unable to share his admiration in words, Charles can only clap and then pat Azazel’s arm excitedly, which garners a rather smug grin from the man and a teasing snort from the others.

There are a few others milling about, shouting greetings as Logan guides him to a comfortable spot in front of one of the tents, onto a pile of brown furs. He’s handed a drink this time from Ororo, and gets a pat on his cheek when he hands her back the empty water skin, making him flush with pleasure at the unlooked for affection. Since his sister left, Charles has lived a life devoid of simple warmth and caring touch; the servants were clinical and distant handling their omega prince, and Cain…

Well Cain’s touch had never been kind or gentle, and he never saw Charles as anything but an object of lust to debauch and corrupt.

“Tuk lat.”

Logan’s light nudge breaks his train of thought, and Charles finds himself infinitely grateful for the timely distraction. He takes the bowl that’s offered with a nod of thanks, and inhales the rich and fragrant scent with an approving hum. It’s a stew of some sort, Charles notes, stirring the brown bits mixed with vegetables in the thick broth; something hearty and filling – and when he takes a bite – absolutely delicious.

“Matk te,” he says, and Logan smiles warmly, the expression so incongruous with the ferocity of his normal countenance. With a start Charles realizes that the General might actually be a little shy, and perhaps a bit unsure around him; Logan has gone out of his way to be kind in word and deed, communicating both his regard for Charles and to help put him at ease.

It is surprisingly heartwarming - and a relief - to know he’s not the only one trying to figure things out.

“Did you make this?” he asks, pointing at Logan, and then to the rest of the stew still hanging over the fire, miming the stirring action of a ladle in an imaginary pot. Ororo is the first to correctly interpret his question and pats Logan on the back, like a proud mother with her cub, while Logan grins as he unsheathes a set of claws out of his hands and mimes the slashing and gutting of some large animal, and then putting the meat into the stew.

Charles isn’t sure what impresses him more – the man’s stunning mutation, or his ability to make what might be the best damn thing he’s ever tasted.

He manages to eat three bowls of it, while the others look on with fond amusement, enjoying their own meals between friendly banter and fussing over Charles. It’s remarkably different from being waited on by the servants at home; here, in the midst of strangers he actually feels cared for, and even appreciated…

…that they might actually like him because he’s _Charles_ , and not because he’s an omega or a prince.

Once the meal is finished and the bowls cleared away, Ororo ducks into one of the tents, and returns with a large bundle in her hands. She gestures for Charles to take it, and when he hesitates, unfolds the bundle herself and wraps its contents around Charles’ shoulders with an indulgent smile.

“Isk ta shun lauta.”

It’s a cape, made of the softest white fur, warm and luxurious and as fine – no, _finer_ – than any garment Charles has ever seen or worn in Westchester. With Ororo’s help he stands and folds the cape around him with a laugh, spinning around to the admiring gaze of his newfound friends.

“It’s beautiful,” he exclaims, as Ororo fastens the cape properly, smoothing the furs as she runs her hands down his arms, obviously pleased with how well it fits. “Is this really for me?”

She seems to possess an almost uncanny ability to understand him, language notwithstanding, and mimes herself shooting the bow at some imaginary creature, before pointing at Charles and patting the cape on his shoulders. And when he smiles and gives thanks she cups his cheeks between her elegant fingers, and presses their foreheads together in an unexpected show of camaraderie.

Charles can’t remember the last time he’d been this happy to get a present.

That is, until Azazel comes forward with a bundle of his own, wrapped in a familiar blue blanket from his old rooms. Inside are a few well-worn and well-loved books from Charles’ private collection, along with his box of writing instruments and letters from his sister – all cherished possessions he had to leave behind, practically shoved out of his own home with nothing but the clothes on his back.

Azazel must have used his powers to sneak inside the Keep then, just so he could collect for Charles some of his own belongings.

All of it – the time spent together, and the thoughtful gifts – is almost overwhelming, and Charles’ eyes water at the unexpected kindness and consideration directed his way. He hugs them all, and gets warm smiles and embraces in return, and for the first time since his arrival Charles allows himself to hope; that his life here with the Genoshans might actually be better than he had feared, and perhaps even better than he’d dared to imagine.

\---

His good mood carries him all the way back to his tent, and through the rest of the afternoon.

\---

He wakes to the sound of bickering, Erik’s voice clear through the thin walls that separate their bed from the rest of their living space. Still groggy from his nap he decides to ignore it, until the second voice raises in volume to match, and Charles realizes that it belongs to his erstwhile guardian.

Undoubtedly his mate is expressing displeasure over all the time Charles spent today away from Alex’s watchful eye.

The argument ends before he has time to intervene, and Erik is storming through the divider into Charles’ view, irritation writ large across his handsome face. It turns positively thunderous when he looks down and actually _sees_ Charles, still wrapped in his new cape and sprawled across their bed.

There would definitely be yelling, if either of them could understand the other’s words.

Instead his mate growls, low and guttural, and shoves him unceremoniously back against the furs. His cape is unfastened but not removed, while the rest of his clothing is yanked clean off his body. Naked and confused Charles can only watch as Erik strokes himself quickly, before settling between his spread thighs and pushing in.

He gasps, the air knocked out of his lungs, skin burning hot as Erik slots into him, sinking his entire length inside Charles’ pliant flesh. It’s not the first time he’s been this rough or hasty in bed, _taking_ without even the most token attempt at foreplay. But though he finds fault with Erik’s manner his body has no such grievance; Charles wraps arms and legs instinctively around his mate, tugging him close, and moans pitifully as he’s splayed wide and his entrance furled open.

“Charles,” Erik gasps, hands clutching hard enough to leave finger marks on easily bruised skin. His mouth is harsh and devouring; his cock, swollen and heavy, pounds him mercilessly into the bed. “Zu mena,” Erik whispers, pressing sweet kisses into flushed skin, “zu mena, zu mena, Charles. _Natk farr_.”

The words are uttered with quiet reverence, completely at odds with the way he’s rutting his hips, impatient and heedless of Charles’ desire or comfort. Overwhelmed, he can only hold on as Erik fucks him like a man possessed; can only gasp for air as he writhes and moans, the pleasure both splendid and devastating as it courses through his veins.

He comes, with Erik’s knot swelling hard and huge, and Erik’s seed spurting hot and sticky, filling his tender hole to the brim.

\---

Erik falls asleep not long after, hands on his belly and knot still buried inside of him, their fluids leaking slowly onto his newly acquired gift.


End file.
